Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
f Aug 27
my volatile cells
will quicken and slow my heartbeat
and there's rhyme or rhythm
no real reason except that i'm an easy target

i feel dizzy
and hyper aware of my skin at the same time
of how close it is to my body
of how much it isn't mine
i would love to escape me,
whatever that is
and stop seeing double for a second
stop

i want to hurt myself
and let any part of me leave this prison cell of a body
because my blood rushing must mean
it wants to get out
i want to get out

i want to hurt myself
and feel something sharp enough that it grounds me
because that is a pain i can explain
rather than one that pulls me into the dark with no warning sign

i want to hurt myself
because i'm angry at my body
and every inch feels completely disgusting
lived in and useless
i feel used

and this body
it's a couple sizes too small to contain anything
and yet it has to;
there are years worth of ugliness and unwanted touches forced into it
and it all keeps trying to come back up

i could cry
or i could vomit, i feel like i need to vomit

or i could hurt myself
because i need my body to know how much
i hate it
and words of hatred etched into my skin,
hidden away,
feel personal enough that this family feud is contained
so i don't have to spill my blood on anyone else

i know i am stuck in a vicious cycle
and that a lot of times i hate my body
because of the very scars i've put there
but sometimes my cells really are volatile
and there's no rhyme or rhythm to anything i do;
all i can think about is getting out
there are the ones
that feel it climb up
the shadow to the light,
hesitation on every rung,
each wave of the arising
      overwhelms  unabated ―
and woe betides those
who are on the run
from a storm's deluge


A rousing ocean breeze
stirs inside the memory
of an unframed seashell
lying on the hearth mantel;
heightened sensitivity
lapping soundlessly,
spindrift plashing
the shoreline
of another world's
feigned peace


Perhaps the muted voice
of guilty pleasures,
hushed by their own
hidden truths
Feeling the unfelt textures
of every stifled vibration
left unbreathed


The naked truth befallen
so cold and lonely
Running in circles,
volatile as all those
     unspoken excitations raging ―
and the whispers of those
who hear not
the voices in the wind


An emotionally enslaved  heart
tarries,  marooned high and dry
in a memory of a distant sand bar
     lain fallow for so long ―
stagnant darkness
of an unsated soul
gathered on the back
of a parched tongue
sullied wordless


Rising up through
a dusty hieroglyph corridor
through an unlocked
labyrinth gate;  vestige echoes
from somewhere left behind
in an incomprehensible
abandoned wake


It's getting harder and harder
   for an insatiable soul to breathe ...
   climbing up a tree trunk―
up within the silence
of the listening tree


  Toes dug into
the rough bark furrows ―
fingers reaching upwards
beyond their deepest known grasp


A shadow stranded
out on a hangin' bough
hearkening without ears that hear:
“perhaps they’ll listen now“  
the wingless bird sings
in psalms that fly away
on tattered feathers
over untamed waters roil


Back to nature’s waning youth,
the bough bends unbroken
to taste the freedom
of the wild absolving seas



Jesse Stillwater
June     2018
Notes:                                                                                                          
a friend sent  a link to a deeply thought provoking modern classic 70's song about Vincent Van Gogh and the complexities of imperfection some of us relate .... i'd listened to the words prior but never heard before now.

  Title is last final lyric line from:  "Vincent" (Starry, Starry night) 1971
Writer(s): DON MCLEAN, ENRICO NASCIMBENI,
ROBERTO VECCHIONI
English Jam May 12
It's........it....'...s..........it's......it.........IT'S.......­..too......tooolate.......too...late

A delicately placed glove upon a hand, mock-gentle and pale
Marks his return
Emerging from the shell of feedback and tortured sounds

Carelessly shattering the eyes of doubters, until they softly thrash for mercy, wailing in an unearthly manner

Taking violent pleasure in crumbling love to a rubble, making the remains march to his fascist regime, his sexualised abuse, his blistering dictatorship

His tongue is dry, his jawline jagged like a strip of fresh metal, his fingers slender and spidery
  
He strides silently, yet none can miss it, seizing attention in a
heil-ish fascion

His iron grip dredges my thoughts, infecting my hopes with his overflowing venom

He thrusts his black ink that peppers my skin with thousands upon thousands of dots, encasing my body, filling my mouth, prohibiting my free will

Twisting me to spiral downwards into his imagination
I descend into the darkness

The darkness ripped from my most volatile, filthy nightmares

The darkness that laces the web of black holes, that decimates any shred of light it can find, deliberately, harshly

My centre of gravity follows him to the sewers of the abyss, a cesspool of pain and stylised sexuality undiscovered by light

Everything starts swirling around him, revolving as though he is a star and all else is the merest of planets that are his to command

I'm going down now
I'm going down
I'm going dow-
Eva Aloezos Aug 17
My brain was assaulted by the volatile senses

colors so vivid and twitching
songs zooming and playing ear through ear
toes drumming
bodies humming
pysche corrupting my dendrites, and playing them like a piano

it all came crashing down in pure brilliance when I revealed,

*The top half of me feels like it gave birth to a train wreck, beauty corrupted by mayhem
Next page